The Wall

Peope Who Died - March, 2025

And then we were four. Forty-eight months of pumping out this dreck. Hard to believe. Were this a real job, I might be a year away from vesting for a pension. I’ll see how long I can play this out but no promises. That said, the path to the hereinafter marches on and for the time being, I will track it for your dining and dancing pleasure. The average length of these things has ballooned since I started so, for both our benefits, I’ll get to it.

Whether fronting the proto-punk band The New York Dolls, being himself (sometimes fronting the Harry Smiths), or taking on the persona of Buster Poindexter (along with The Banshees of Blue) which performed jump blues, traditional pop music, and swing, David Johanson, who died this month at 75 (my how we are all getting old), was always the star. I put him as America’s Mick Jagger (I don’t agree that Steven Tyler comes close), although he never attained the fame or fortune of the Stone’s frontman. Born in Staten Island, which ensures that he will be somewhat apart from most of America, he sang in local bands, but eventually migrated to Andy Warhol’s circle, and the Mercer Art’s Center’s musical scene, which led to his helping to form the New York Dolls, a group that, perhaps lacked the musicianship of, say, the Kronos Quartet, but made up for it in swagger, cross-dressing, makeup, and transexual behavior in a time where such antics might get you beaten in an alley. They put out two albums, “New York Dolls” (produced by Todd Rundgren), and “Too Much Too Soon,” neither of which were great sellers and garnered only mixed reviews. As with such bands, they had a more profound effect on other musicians of the time then they had on the general public. For instance, Morrisey, who had a far greater impact on the general public than did the Dolls, was inspired by the band. After seeing them on a BBC broadcast, he became the President of the New York Dolls fan Club in the U.K. Most of the listening audience, however, didn’t know how to take these bizarre, energetic, marginal musicians. Their A&R guy, Paul Nelson, wrote in the Village Voice that “when they eventually met the youth of the country, the youth seemed more confused than captivated by them.” Clearly, New York is not always the best indicator of what will sell worldwide. Johanson’s biggest hit would be “Hot, Hot, Hot,” when he was Buster Poindexter. He came to loathe the song. When he was with The Harry Smiths, he leaned into blues and folk. The album they put out featured tunes from Lightnin’ Hopkins, Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Mississippi John Hurt. A musical chameleon, Johanson was always steeped in the Blues. Aside from music, he dabbled in acting and had a Serius XM radio show. To sum him up in one of his lyrics, he was Funky but Chic.

Let’s swing to a polar opposite. Alan Simpson, the longtime Senator from Wyoming (three terms), died at 93. He and Johanson did share a troubled youth. Johanson was bounced from his fancy private high school (and let’s not forget he was in Staten Island), and Simpson’s youth was checkered with trouble. He liked to shoot up mailboxes and farm animals (killed a cow once), set fires and punched a cop who tried to arrest him, earning a couple of years’ probation but no jail, as it was different times. His father was at one time the Governor of Wyoming, a state legislator, and U.S. Senator, and must have chafed at his son’s reckless youth but looking back on it, he didn’t join the New York Dolls. In a Friend of the Court brief to the Supreme Court, seeking leniency for two youthful defendants, Simpson described his young self as “a monster,” explaining to the Court how, with the help of his probation officer, he was able to turn his young life around. He did attend college and law school and joined his dad in his law practice before entering politics. I generally don’t write about politicians but in these times, Simpson, a moderate Republican (he once quipped, “we have two political parties in this country, the stupid party and the evil party. I belong to the stupid party”), possessed a trait that is heading for extinction, if it has not already occurred in our politicians – the ability to reach across the aisle in a bipartisan manner and stand up for your ideals. Actually, even having a set of ideals sets him apart from many of today’s elected officials. He was Republican but agreed with a woman’s right to choose and supported gay rights and marriage. He could also be tough on his opponents. He was not above reaching a consensus with many of his Democratic colleagues such as Ted Kennedy. He used rough language and humor which are two things I enjoy. President George W. Bush described Simpson as “one of the finest public servants ever to have graced our nation’s capital,” and President Biden awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom. In a review of Simpson’s autobiography, published in the New York Times, David Gergen, the White House Communications Director under President Gerald Ford, and also was an advisor to President Clinton, wrote” “Alan Simpson was a much more valuable public servant than his critics admit. He worked effectively to create bipartisan coalitions that moved important legislation through Congress. His personal friendships and his humor were part of the glue that kept the place together. And unlike most of his critics, he owned up to his mistakes.” Elected officials today, who I marvel at because they can stand even though they lack spines, would be wise to look to Alan Simpson as a lesson in how to conduct oneself, regardless of your political beliefs.

There was a time when boxing was king. It outstripped most other sports for popularity. With names like Louis, Marciano, and Ali, it was far more popular than say, football. A brutal sport, it is the ultimate mano a mano endeavor. One of the best in the modern era, George Foreman, died at 76. Those of you who are not boxing aficionados, probably know him for his grilling capabilities, but it was boxing that brought him to prominence. A slightly misspent youth (this month’s theme, apparently) led him to a boxing gym where in the span of 19 months he went from petty criminal to Olympic Champion at the Mexico City Olympics in 1968, when he defeated Ionas Chepulis of the Soviet Union by knocking him out in the second round. Sixty-eight was the year that track stars Tommie Smith and John Carlos used the podium to advocate for civil rights by raising their clenched fists. Foreman, on the other hand, celebrated by waving a small American flag because he said at the time, “I was just glad to be an American.” That got him labeled an “Uncle Tom” by many but a great American by perhaps a larger percentage of the population. And that was Foreman, an effervescent guy who always projected a happy demeanor except in the ring when he wanted to just steamroll your ass. After the Olympics, he went on a boxing tear winning his first 40 fights. After winning number 37, he fought Joe Frazier in Kingston, Jamaica. Foreman was the underdog, but he knocked down Frazier six times in the match. I can still hear Howard Cosell’s voice shouting, “Down goes Frazier!, Down goes Frazier!” After Frazier, he beat the Puerto Rican champ Jose Roman and then Ken Norton. Then it was time for the greatest boxer in my lifetime, Muhammad Ali, who had his title stripped from him when he went to jail for being a conscientious objector to the Vietnam war. Dubbed the “Rumble in the Jungle,” as the fight took place in Zaire, it was a contrast in styles. Ali, the overwhelming underdog because he was passed his prime, was a true boxer with all the elegance (I know that seems oxymoronic, but a great boxer is, in ways, as elegant as a ballet dancer) that brings to the ring. Foreman was a brawler. Ali devised the now famous rope-a dope strategy where, rather than fight Foreman, he covered up, let Foreman get him against the ropes and punch as much as he wanted to Ali’s arms which covered his face and midsection. The blows, while not hurting Ali, tired out Foreman. After taking a beating for six rounds, Ali leaned into Foreman and whispered “That all you got George?” Punched out by that time, it was. Ali then took control of the fight knocking Foreman out in the eighth round when he couldn’t beat the count. Foreman turned from pugilism to the Lord and became a minister. He didn’t slow down on his spending which eventually forced him back into the ring where he fought until he was 48, with mixed results, against largely second-rate opponents.

Perhaps his greatest fame (and fortune), came not as puncher, but as a pitchman. In a joint venture with Salton, Inc., he put his name on and became the ultimate salesman for the George Foreman Grill. His deal was that he got 40% of the profits which proved so formidable that his rights were bought out for $127.5 million and stock, proving that grilling meat is far more profitable than getting the shit kicked out of you in a boxing ring. Aside from being a pitchman, Foreman rivalled Elon Musk for spreading his seed, fathering 12 Children (Musk is purported to have 14 and still counting. It is my belief that his falling out with Trump will occur because he will be found schtupping Melania), five of whom he named George Edward Foreman after himself, “so they would always have something in common.” While many will remember Foreman for his boxing prowess or his salesmanship for a good indoor griller of hamburgers, I will remember him for his irrepressible optimism and his smile. As he once said: “I am so happy to be alive. That’s the one thing I’d like for people to know. Sometimes people walk by and slip up and say the wrong thing about me, and I’ll smile. They wonder why I’m smiling. Because I’m happy that I’m alive.” I feel the same way. Just with a lot less money.

Sports columnists don’t get their due. I have said many times that Jason Gay, who writes for the Wall Street Journal, is excellent, and so too was John Feinstein who died this month at 69. Although he was a long-time columnist for the Washington Post, he was most known for the many books (more than 50, I believe), that he wrote, foremost among them, “A Season on the Brink,” about the 1985-86 Indiana University basketball, season, and the golf book, “A good walk Spoiled: Days and Nights on the PGA Tour.” That title was actually pilfered from Mark Twain, although there is no evidence that Twain actually played the game. Feinstein attended Duke, and notwithstanding his poor shape later in life, was on the swim team. He palled around with the basketball players back before Duke was the powerhouse it has become, and got to know coach K. It was that relationship that got Feinstein his entre to Bobby Knight, the great, but controversial coach of the Indiana Hoosiers. Basketball, in Indiana, is more a religion than a sport. Knight gave Feinstein unprecedented access to him and the team practices and was somewhat shocked when the book came out at how real-to-life the portrayal was. Knight was, to be kind, a complicated person who, while caring for his players, was given to volcanic outbursts. Feinstein captured Knight in all his contrasting personas, many of which were ugly. Knight was cruel to Feinstein after the book came out and didn’t even talk to Coash Krzyzewski for years. Feinstein, however, always said good things about Knight thanking him for the access he was provided and crediting him with having launched his book-writing career. Therein lies the problem with Knight, and the greatness of Feinstein. He was a superb writer who loved sports, worked his tail off, and gave readers insights into people, games, and seasons they would not otherwise have. I have never read a Feinstein book, but there are three I came away from the research for this with, which are on my list. The Final Four this year, the first without him in many, will be diminished.

Baseball is great for many reasons, but its history of colorful people is unparalleled in sport. Bill Veeck was one of the more colorful folks in the game. He once said that there was no money in owning a baseball team. The money was in selling it. The recent sale of the Boston Celtics, bought for some $385 million, and just sold for $6.2 billion, proves his point. Anyway, this will lead to an obituary, I promise. Veeck owned the St. Louis Browns who, back in 1951 were pretty abysmal. Hoping to spice things up, at least for a day or so, Veeck signed the 3-foot seven inch Eddy Gaedel to a one year contract with the team. When Frank Sucier, who died this month at the age of 98, (there’s the obit), and who had a pretty good minor league career, winning three batting titles, came to the plate, he was called back in favor of the pinch hitting Gaedel, who wore the number 1/8. The umpire balked as the small-statured Gaedel stepped into the batter’s box but was shown the contract and let him hit. Gaedel went into a crouch and promptly walked on four pitches. On his way to first base, he stopped three times to bow to the crowd. Once there, he was immediately taken out for a pinch runner. The crowd loved it. The American League President, Will Harridge, did not, and he promptly voided Gaedel’s contract. Veeck protested, arguing that size was relative and asking whether Phil Rizzuto was a big midget or a small player? As for Saucier, his time in the big league’s was interrupted by stints in the Navy and he never caught on. He spent 38 years in Texas in the oil and gas industries. However, as someone involved in one of the great sports escapades, he should always be remembered.

The last remaining original member of Badfinger, the guitarist, Joey Mollond, died this month at 77. Hey, he may not be EVH but he deserves some ink here. I needed to get an EVH mention in to keep Calcagni interested. Badfinger, which started life as the Iveys, was one of the first bands signed by the Beatle’s record label, Apple. James Taylor was another. The band’s name was an offshoot of the Beatles tune “Bad Finger Boogie,” and their music was Beatles-esque. Paul McCartney wrote their first hit (how good is that to have a Beatle write your tunes for you), “Come and Get It,” which was actually recorded just before Mollond joined the band, and George Harrison produced and played slide guitar on another, “Day After Day.” Hard to fail with co-creators like that. The band, though, and Mr. Mollond, were possessed of talent which came through on their records. That said, with all of the comparisons to the greatest music-makers in modern history, it was tough for them to break through. Business disputes and an ugly rift with their management (one of the members committed suicide over the dispute and another member also took his own life), broke the band up. Mollond, continued to use the name, touring as Joey Mollond’s Badfinger. Notwithstanding the tragedy of the band, in an interview for Guitar World Magazine, Mollond credited the band with giving him “the opportunity to do everything a musician could want.” To quote from my favorite Badfinger tune: “No matter what you are.”

Jessie, Colin Young, who died this month at 83, was the lead singer of the Youngbloods, who had an enduring hit with the song “Get Together,” (you know it, “C’mon people now, smile on your brother…”). The song was written, not by Mr. Young, but by Chet Atkins to later took the name Dino Valenti and was part of Quicksilver Messenger Service, along with the great Nicky Hopkins. Their biggest hit was “Fresh Air.” Anyway, “Get Together” was actually recorded by Atkins/Valenti and didn’t take off. Young heard Buzzy Linhardt (there is an obscure reference) perform it and fell in love with the tune. The Youngbloods put it on their first album but again, it didn’t move. It was featured in a public service announcement for the National Conference of Christians and Jews and from there it took off. Funny how these things happen. Young also had a minor hit with “Darkness, Darkness,” a song he did write about the Vietnam war. I think Richie Havens made more of it than the Youngbloods but hey, he got the residuals. Robert Plant also covered it and was nominated for a Grammy for Best Male Rock Vocal Performance. Young was born Perry Miller in Queens, New York, but I couldn’t pinpoint where. He got his p/k/a name from combining the names of the outlaws Jessie James and Cole Younger and, for good measure, and because his music is so identified with it, threw in the Formula One engineer Colin Chapman. Go figure. He won a scholarship to Phillips Exeter Academy, so he was no dope. He formed the Youngbloods after playing the Greenwich Village folk scene and meeting the guitarist Jerry Corbitt in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Their first producer was Felix Pappalardi who was big in the folk circle before shedding that and becoming the bass player for Mountain. Pappalardi himself was shot to death by his wife, who designed some of the album covers for the Leslie West-fronted band. The irony was that he bought the gun for his wife’s protection but when she found him fooling around with a younger woman, decided to use it proactively. She was tried and the jury rejected murder and manslaughter charges, finding her guilty only of criminally negligent homicide, for which she received a four-year sentence. She served two. Back to Young, after the Youngbloods, he embarked on a solo career and wrote several lesser hits. He was lauded as a good songwriter, musician, and singer. He also founded a record label, did some podcasting, and grew coffee on a farm in Hawaii, all while making music. Not a bad life by any measure.

Dr. Kildare, or more properly, Richard Chamberlain, has died at 90. He began his career with minor parts in films and then signed on to play Dr. Kildare on the NBC series of the same name, which ran in the 60’s. I remember watching it with my grandmother. Chamberlain was quite the heartthrob back then and I suspect many people (I assume now my grandmother as well), watched it to see this great looking guy. The joke was on them because years later, in his autobiography, he came out as gay. Anyway, the show was a hit but when it ended, Chamberlain did not want to be just a network heartthrob. He moved to Europe and worked on the acting craft, eventually playing Shakespearian roles with credibility. He returned to the U.S. a skilled actor. He made his mark in several well-received mini-series, “Shogun,” “The Thorn Birds,” and “Wallenburg: A Heroes Story,” where he portrayed Raoul Wallenburg, a Swedish diplomat credited with saving thousands of Hungarian Jews. He received three Golden Globe awards, one for his Dr. Kildare role, and one each for the “Thorn Birds,” and “Shogun.” He did a lot of Broadway work and thankfully never had to appear on the “Love Boat.” After he came out in his autobiography, he enjoyed playing gay and gender-challenging roles. According to his N.Y. Times obit, he was asked by a reporter for the Archive of American Television, how he wanted to be remembered. He answered, “I am not interested in being remembered.” I beg to differ because Dr. Kildare will never be forgotten.

That wraps up year four and March all at once. Trees are budding, crokuses are sprouting from the ground, and the newness of Spring gives us all a new start. Play ball.